Yes, Papa
by happy hobo
Summary: Thenardier is visited while on his trip to America.


A/N: Spur of the moment idea. The world needs more Thenardier fics, ones in which he actually acts like a human. The world  
  
needs more Gavroche fics. The world needs more what-happened-after fics. Here's  
  
mine. It won't be continued, so don't beg, please.  
  
The world is a complicated place. I don't understand most of the time.  
  
That's why I like this time of night. It's late, I'm tired, somewhere in between  
  
sleep and wake, a peaceful meditation. Everything seems fine. No thinking involved.   
  
But tomorrow would be an important day. I must sleep. Gueulemer, Brujon  
  
and that stupid girl are already sleeping, quiet as a corpse. We're the only ones left.  
  
Montparnasse wouldn't come, Babet's in jail, and who knows what happened to  
  
Claquesous.If I didn't sleep, I would look like an uneducated slob in the morning. A  
  
morning in a new place, a new adventure, in a city even bigger than Paris, more  
  
dangerous than the sewers, and with more freedom than one could imagine.   
  
Tomorrow to New York.  
  
It was a thrill. I was bit by the America bug, I had a dream to be free. I  
  
wanted to conquer the world. And of course I would.  
  
No one else in the crowded room seemed to be awake. No, there was one. Just  
  
some brat. He was walking around, with a rather cocky look on his face. He was in  
  
rags, yet we all were. Quite the handsome youngster, actually. I didn't notice, but he  
  
seemed to be approaching me.  
  
"Papa?" He spoke. His voice was sweet, like he was singing to me. I always  
  
wanted a boy, not the stupid bitches I was stuck with. The wife wouldn't have been  
  
happy with boys, and they would be just another mouth to feed. But what would I  
  
have done for a strapping young man than that whiney Eponine? Or a smart,  
  
educated lad instead of useless Azelma?  
  
I forced a laugh. "I'm not your Papa, boy. Go back to your mother."  
  
"Mother is dead, monsieur." He said this confidently, without a hint of  
  
regret. "But you are my papa. You are alive."  
  
"No mother than, gamin?" I smiled, patting his head. "Go on now, I have no  
  
son. Find your papa."  
  
"I have found my papa. That is you. And that's Azelma, and Brujon."  
  
This shocked me. I almost grabbed Azelma protectively. This gamin had an  
  
aura about him that frightened me. He was so monotone, barely showed any  
  
emotion. "Go on home, boy. Stay away from Azelma and I."  
  
"No. Papa, I am Gavroche!"  
  
The name sounded familiar. But how many Gavroches in Paris could there  
  
be? More than one, for sure. I rarely made contact with young lads. I tried to study  
  
his face. "I've seen you before," I thought outloud.  
  
"Yes, I am your son."  
  
"No, no..." I began to think. He was Montparnasse's friend, who helped me  
  
out of La Force, before we tried to rob that Rue Plumet home. "Ah, yes, you know  
  
Montparnasse."  
  
"Yes, Papa. He is your friend. But he wouldn't come with you to America  
  
because he is trying to find Eponine. He won't find her. Eponine is dead. Even if she  
  
were alive, she won't marry Montparnasse, she wants Marius Pontmercy."  
  
I had heard that name as well. "Yes, I know Eponine's dead. I tried to tell him..." But how did  
  
this boy know? I sighed, he wasn't going anywhere, and he was a talkative boy.  
  
"You seen the barricades, than? You would have been one of those lads delivering  
  
letters and fetching guns and food for those rebels."  
  
"Yes Papa." Must he keep saying that? "The barricades were big." He said,  
  
stretching his arm up as high as it could go. I smiled.  
  
"Sit down, boy." I scooted over, leaving room between Brujon's sleeping body  
  
and myself. As the boy sat, I noticed something on his shirt, under his ragged coat.  
  
"Boy, your shirt is stained."  
  
"Yes Papa." He said, without even a trace of emotion. He took off the coat to  
  
reveal the spot was very large.  
  
I leaned in, staring at it. It was red. And it was coming out of a hole in the  
  
shirt.  
  
"You're bleeding, gamin!" I said, jumping back. It was unexpected, it looked  
  
as if he had been shot.  
  
"Yes, Papa." He said, staring at me.  
  
Completely frightened now, I closed my eyes, ready to scream this demon  
  
away. "Get out of here! Don't stare at me like that!"  
  
"Yes, Papa."  
  
I suddenly remembered. Gavroche. My son, that lad that the wife threw out  
  
of our first home in Paris.  
  
"Papa, I love you."  
  
"Gavroche." I whispered.  
  
"That's my name, Papa." He said. "But it's too late, Papa. It's too late for me.  
  
It's too late for Eponine. And it's too late for maman. But it's not too late for her."  
  
I looked at Azelma. The little twit was sleeping silently. And it came over me  
  
how beautiful she was. When she and Eponine were children, they were like my  
  
little angels. All the young ladies that came to the tavern cooed over them, as if they  
  
were kittens. They smiled, like sweet little angels. And I would hug them and kiss  
  
them, send them off to bed or out to play.  
  
I brushed her hair out of the way of her eyes. She was still beautiful to me,  
  
even if the gentlemen didn't think so. With the wife and daughter gone to the pits of  
  
hell, she was the only reminder of that happy life. Clean home, warm bed, knowing  
  
when you would have your next meal.   
  
"Thank you, Gavroche." I said, turning to him. But he was gone.  
  
Than I remembered when I was at the barricade. I saw two bodies, laid out  
  
neatly on a table. An old man, and a young boy. A young boy with a gunshot wound  
  
to his chest. 


End file.
